I knew there was a good chance that we would not get back together. I wanted to repair my relationship with Lisa, but I needed things to be cordial so that I could spend time with the kids. I knew she was dating, and although I went out when I first came home, it was infrequent.
Although I was working with the FBI, there were parole conditions I had to abide by. Release from prison requires a convict to be on constant call for parole check-ins and random drug tests. I was no exception. One of the terms of my release was to meet with a drug counselor twice a month for a year. My parole required me to call in daily for possible urine tests. If my “color” came up, I had until the end of the day to report to a designated place for a pee test.
My parole officer was one of the very few people cleared to know that I was working with the FBI. My PO met regularly with the Two Mikes and the judge for a status update to make sure I wasn’t being taken advantage of by the government.
I had the burden of what to do about the cryptic notes from my dad, who was anxiously waiting for my Milan visitation rights to be cleared.
Tell Mish [Frankie] to see Sanno [Frank senior] ias
[sic] soon as posible [sic] about Skins [Dolores].
Or:
Put everything in an envelope, put for lawyer on it give it to skins and have skins give it to who gave you this paper. You keep 1-B every month for yourself.
And:
Hi Smiley! I know you’re much happier where you’re at. Sano would like you to find out about her girlfriend with the long curly hair. Tell her she knows where she belongs and you are there talking to her for Sano and listen to whatever she has to say and tell her afterward that you’ll be getting back to her.…
And finally:
The recipes you get from Cap—put them in a big book, put book in big envelope and live [sic] it next door for my wife to pick up—put for Tony [bullshit name] on outside of envelope.… There should be a 11-months [money from Captain D] of cooking in there, total of 65 recipes … when you go see Sanno he will tell you about it all.…
I had to try and find a way to communicate with my father that didn’t involve Diane. After she gave me the notes, I told her that I had questions that needed answering. Whom could I talk to? She told me to call Mike Ricci. I wore a wire on him when we met. Those meetings with Ricci proved extremely productive. They established that Dad was still active, and that Ricci and Twan Doyle were helping him.
I looked over the list of the men I was expected to collect from. I liked Donald DiFazio, known around the neighborhood as Captain D. He was a good guy. Then there was Ralph Peluso, whom I’d had run-ins with in the past. I disliked Peluso, though not enough to wish my father on him. And there was Michael Talarico, whom I regarded as family. Talarico was admired by almost everyone who bet with him. He ran “a great book” and had a reputation for fairness. He didn’t threaten anybody, and took more than his share of flak. When Michael mentioned leaving the street business behind, he was beaten up by my dad and Ronnie Jarrett in front of a neighborhood bar down the street from his house.
As I received the notes from Dad I would turn them over to Mike Maseth. A meeting was set up with the Two Mikes on the top floor of a shopping center parking lot on Harlem Avenue and Irving Park Road to discuss following up on the three street tax contacts from which I was to collect.
We met at different locations on the West Side of town. It’s difficult to be anonymous on the street, so we would meet in cars in shopping centers. Because I’d worked the streets so long, it was likely that I would run into people that knew me or my father. The Two Mikes didn’t look like regular FBI agents; they looked and dressed like a lot of my friends. Maseth blended in by looking preppy. Had I met with, say, Mitch Mars, Bob Moon, or John Scully on the street, that would have been a different story. Those were high-profile guys.
After the clandestine shopping center meetings, I agreed to meet with extortion victims Donald DiFazio and Ralph Peluso, plus Mike Ricci. If I wore a wire, I would remain focused on collecting information on my father. I had no interest in targeting other street crews; I wanted to assist victims of my dad, so I refused to wear a wire on Michael Talarico. He was a decent man, and what Talarico did on his own was his business.
I could have busted gangsters running their scams, but it wasn’t my job; I wasn’t a G-man or a cop. I focused on people who were close associates and victims of my father. The FBI went along with my decision.
After I left the halfway house, I moved in with my mother. My dad called the house regularly. “Did you see the recipes or talk to the chef?” My mother caught wind of the calls and picked up the phone, only to be cut short by him. She knew that her ex was up to something. She handed the phone to me with a curt warning: “You best not be doing anything wrong with your father.”
“I can guarantee you, Ma; I’m not getting into trouble again.”
Technically I was telling my mother the truth. Yes, I was working with him, but no, I wasn’t going to get into trouble. I couldn’t risk letting my mother or Lisa in on what I’d been up to over the past months. Who knew how they’d react? Secrecy was important to ensure my safety. After letting him off easy with the divorce, Mom grew weary of Dad’s promises of support that never materialized. Watching two of her sons do prison time was heartbreaking enough.
Being back out on the streets wasn’t without temptation. When word got out that I was back collecting, offers came from a new generation of characters. There was a line waiting to replace gangsters like Angelo LaPietra, Johnny Apes, and Jimmy DiForti, who died between 1999 and 2001.
I had guys ask me to get into offshore gambling, sports betting, and poker machines. While creating the impression that I was still a gangster, I told them I wasn’t interested, and politely thanked them.
Under the FBI’s watchful eye, I met with Captain D to collect the extortion payments. The new agreement was to meet and collect every two months instead of monthly. One of those meetings occurred on the street in Chinatown. DiFazio was too nervous to get out of the vehicle and barely cracked his car window open. At the time, I didn’t know why DiFazio was nervous about his payment arrangement. Originally, Connie’s Pizza money had gone to Angelo LaPietra. After Angelo pleaded guilty and went to prison for skimming Vegas casinos, my father switched the terms and pocketed the proceeds for himself. But with Dad in prison and Jarrett and Angelo dead, Captain D was without “protection” and was being hounded by Anthony “the Hatchet” Chiaramonti. Connie’s was opening another restaurant in the southwestern suburbs. The Hatchet was squeezing the pizzeria chain for additional street tax. DiFazio asked me to let my father know, so he could call off the Hatchet. I promised that I would explain the situation as soon as I saw him.
(In 2001 “Hatch” Chiaramonti parked his new BMW in front of Brown’s Chicken and went in to use the pay phone. When he walked back to his car, a van pulled into his path, and a passenger exited and chased the Hatchet back toward the restaurant. As he entered the restaurant vestibule, Chiaramonti was shot five times: he took one bullet in the chest, one in the arm, and three fatal slugs to the head.)
I ran into Captain D at Bella Luna. He handed me an extra payment that was due. I put the cash in my pocket. At the time I was struggling financially, making only three hundred dollars a week while having to pay rent to the halfway house and provide more money for Lisa and the kids.
I went home, put the money on the dresser, and just stared at it. Part of me wanted to keep it, knowing the FBI would never find out. The other part of me loved my new life. While it was difficult, it was a tremendous feeling, not having to look constantly over my shoulder. I stashed the money in a drawer.
A couple of months later, I confessed to the Two Mikes.
I knew I had to tell them and that they’d have to file a report, though I hadn’t spent a penny. If I kept the money, what would set me apart from my father? Turning the cash in wasn’t about preserving the integrity of the case but about preserving my character. I need
ed to turn in that money.
Once I handed over the money, Hartnett blew his stack. After the money was logged in and the paperwork was filed, I stayed clean, if almost broke, for the rest of the investigation.
With Ronnie Jarrett dead, the streets were changing in Chinatown. Not having Ronnie around eliminated a huge threat. Ronnie had been a primary concern for me because of his “killer” status. His death meant one less person to worry about. I visited Jarrett’s widow, Rosemary, a friend, while wearing a wire. The purpose of my visit was to try and find out who might have killed Jarrett. At first the family was cautious, as was everyone that I approached. Even from prison, my father’s menacing aura loomed over the streets of Chicago. Not long after Ronnie’s death, the Jarrett family were approached by associates of my father about cash and jewelry that Ronnie had been holding. They were reminded that they had a “responsibility” to give back the money and the jewelry.
I was appalled to see Ronnie’s family shaken down by my father’s associates, especially after the death of his loyal lieutenant. A short time after Jarrett was gunned down, Rosemary contacted me, asking if we could meet at her mother-in-law’s house on South Lowe in Chinatown. It was the same house where we had done our bookwork. Rosemary had sold the house and didn’t want to talk on the phone, but she had some things she wanted me to take away. I set up a time to meet her with my pickup truck.
With Ronnie’s murderers at large, red flags popped up. Was the meeting a setup, a ruse to get me alone? Was Rosemary being squeezed like me to do favors for the Outfit or my dad? It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic for the Outfit to use a woman to set up a kill. I contacted the Two Mikes, who wired me with a listening device and surrounded the area. I met Rosemary in the same garage that my father, my uncle, and Ronnie used to kill Paul Haggerty and John Mendell. Twan Doyle had already taken the cars out of the garage, but there were a couple of old guns and some boxes of paperwork left behind.
I threw the stuff in the back of my truck and drove downtown, followed by the FBI. The paperwork was later tied to the crew’s bookmaking associates, who included Philly Tolomeo.
While working with the FBI in 1999, wearing a wire, and collecting for my father, I thought it might be safer if I left my job at Bella Luna. While I wanted to stay in Chicago and complete my work with the Two Mikes, I decided to take up a new career as a truck driver.
I needed a backup career. I was a good driver, so I thought I’d give it a try. I ran into Jimmy Marcello’s nephew, Sammy Galioto, over at Kurt’s house. When he heard I wanted to drive an eighteen-wheeler, he got on the phone with—of all people—Dickie DeAngelo, the same guy who killed my father’s first business partner, Larry Stubitsch, back in the early sixties. He now owned a trucking company. Dickie’s advice was to get my learner’s permit and come see him.
I pored over the books and manuals and passed each of my driving tests, quickly earning the necessary licenses. DeAngelo had trepidations about hiring me until he was assured that I had no interest in avenging the death of Stubitsch. DeAngelo put me on the street the very next day hauling twenty-seven- and fifty-three-foot trailers for a project at the old McCormick Place.
In between trucking assignments, I worked with the Two Mikes compiling the Milan prison yard tapes for court. I’d work four twelve-hour days for Dickie, and then I’d sit down with the Two Mikes for twelve hours on a Friday working on the tapes. If I had any more time off, I’d do more work on the tapes.
Because of their legal significance, a precise transcription was necessary. Since I couldn’t be seen anywhere near the FBI OC1 squad room in the Dirksen Federal Building, many hours were spent cooped up in suburban FBI branch offices twenty-five miles out of Chicago. Getting the conversations word for word on paper, I explained what my father was referring to in his mysterious narration. For weeks, I alternated between tape transcribing and truck driving. Soon, the FBI and the Assistant U.S. Attorneys accumulated a wealth of information about the 26th Street Chinatown crew and how it operated.
One day I got a call on the highway. It was Mike, and he was driving the Crown Victoria right behind me.
“Frankie! I thought that was you. You’re doing a hell of a job driving that rig.” Mike assured me that I wasn’t under surveillance.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You can follow me whenever you want. That’s the joy of not doing anything wrong.”
While I was working with the Feds transcribing tapes, Maseth and Hartnett had their sights set on Uncle Nick, who was serving his time for racketeering in FCI Pekin, Illinois. Armed with evidence from my prison yard tapes and the visiting room videos Maseth filmed with my father, Doyle, and Ricci, the Two Mikes were ready to use the bloody gloves to smoke out my uncle.
In mid-1999, Hartnett and Bourgeois had already journeyed to Pekin to serve a search warrant on Uncle Nick, to conduct a DNA swab, and to X-ray and photograph his left arm. They were trying to match his DNA with the bloody gloves, and the X-ray could reveal any bullet fragments that might be embedded in my uncle’s left forearm.
Hartnett and Bourgeois waited in the examination room as the door opened. In walked a very jumpy Nicholas Calabrese. He submitted to the X-ray of his left arm. After the medical examiner took the exposures and went off to develop the film, Hartnett collected Uncle Nick’s DNA by swabbing the inside of his mouth.
Hartnett had never administered a DNA test before, and while one or two swabs would have sufficed, he was anxious not to screw up and placed eight finished swabs inside the evidence container.
A few minutes later, the X-ray technician returned and slapped up the finished exposures onto an X-ray reader on the wall. The film revealed bullet fragments in Uncle Nicky’s forearm.
“We need to talk,” Hartnett said solemnly. “We’ve got you on the Fecarotta murder. You can choose to help yourself.”
Nick bowed his head in anguish. Without admitting guilt, he asked the FBI to supply him with a list of lawyers he could trust and to arrange a visit with his wife and children under the pretext of “medical considerations.”
Two weeks later, Nick received an unannounced follow-up visit from Hartnett and Police Detective Bob Moon. They informed my uncle that while they were awaiting DNA tests on the bloody gloves, they were confident the results would link him to the 1986 murder of Big Stoop. The FBI’s mission was to convince my uncle to cooperate and testify against his brother, to verify the information they had gathered with me from the Milan yard and the visiting room.
Hartnett and Moon met with a chilly reception. “Forget it,” Nick told Hartnett. “I’m not interested. I got nothing to say to you.”
Despite the discovery of the bullet fragments and a positive DNA test, he was still a loyal Outfit soldier who couldn’t possibly rat out his mob family, no matter how much contempt he had for his older brother.
The trip proved to be a setback. Hitting Uncle Nick with a brash ultimatum may not have been the most effective strategy. Moon’s presence had rubbed him the wrong way, as they had known each other from a previous arrest. Outfit mobsters had a history of not rolling over at the first sign of legal problems, and my uncle was no exception.
Nick was living under a dark cloud. He had been estranged from my father for four years, since 1995. The two hadn’t spoken. My uncle had cut his ties by hiring a different law firm than the rest of us. He began to feel isolated and underappreciated. My dad was toying with putting the word out to Jimmy Marcello in Pekin through Mike Ricci, Mickey Marcello, and Ronnie Jarrett to keep an eye on my uncle. Mickey and Ronnie were alerted that Nick had a potential problem with a murder beef. Uncle Nick’s allegiance came with a price. Back in 1997 Jimmy had already arranged for the Outfit to pay Nick’s family four thousand dollars cash every month to keep him quiet.
Law enforcement authorities suspected that Nick’s life was in danger at Pekin, being close to Marcello and Harry Aleman. At one time, Harry and my uncle were cellmates, but once Nick was linked to the Fecarotta hit, the Feds issued a separat
ion order and transferred Aleman out of Pekin.
When the FBI showed up a third time, it was to obtain a handwriting sample to connect my uncle to the Cagnoni bombing. Marcello was in a nearby room visiting with Mickey when he spotted the agents meeting with Nick. Nick did the writing sample without uttering a word to the agents. Then he abruptly left the room.
Another potential breach of security occurred when the Feds suspected there was a plan to murder my uncle inside FCI Pekin.
The warden called Hartnett and told him about a letter that had been hand-dropped in the prison’s SIS office. It said that Nick was under investigation for a Chicago murder and that the Outfit was concerned he was going to flip, which would hurt Jimmy and Mickey Marcello. The note was completely specific and on point—a pretty serious threat.
A young inmate from Cicero jailed on drug charges and eager to gain status with the Outfit boasted to a cellmate that he knew about a gun that was smuggled inside to kill my uncle. After the young inmate’s cellie slipped a note to a guard, correctional officers moved Nick into protective custody, while Jimmy Marcello was ushered into lockdown. Questioning his safety, my uncle realized he should seriously consider cooperating.
Another potential problem arose when Mike Maseth received a call from a captain at FCI Milan: an “interesting piece of paperwork” had crossed his desk. “Why is Nick Calabrese being transferred to Milan?”
Mike was stunned. Nick was en route to Milan and would be in the same prison with my father. After a few desperate phone calls, he was taken off the transport flight and detoured to the federal prison in Ashland, Kentucky.
As Nick settled in at FCI Ashland in northeastern Kentucky, on January 15, 2002, the FBI arranged another visit through his counsel. After a great deal of back-and-forth communication, my uncle surmised that he was out of options and that his situation with my father and Marcello was only going to get worse. He made the fateful decision to turn against his brother, although how cooperative he would be—and exactly how much he knew—was yet to be determined by the Feds.
Operation Family Secrets: How a Mobster's Son and the FBI Brought Down Chicago's Murderous Crime Family Page 21